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    A mob of acne-faced, zombie-like teenagers wandered into Las Vegas’ Washington Academy, seeking purpose. Some roamed the halls, hunting others to entertain them. Some trudged into classrooms and fell into desks, letting themselves drift off to sleep until the shrill bell would ruthlessly wake them. The halls were filled with jocks chasing nerds; some cheerleaders, goths, and emos; punks, preps, and the ever-present stoner crowd. But one brunette-haired girl with piercing blue eyes stood out in this crowded hallway, grin gleaming and voice booming.
    “Over the past three years, dozens of our students have gotten terrible sickness from what the cafeteria ladies call ‘Stu Surprise!’” Jean declared into her school reporter microphone. “But the only surprise we all know it to be is a horrid mishmash of some kind of rotten food.” She walked backwards a little down the hall, her camera boy, Aron, following her. “Join us as a former victim of this so-called stu shares his traumatic story.”
    She held her microphone out to a boy so pale and sickly it was obvious he shouldn’t even be at school today. Jean gently prompted him and he swallowed, giving the camera a sage look. “I ate the Stu Surprise a week ago and I'm still feeling the effects,” he mumbled, clutching his stomach. “My stomach hurts, my head is pounding, and--” Abruptly, he covered his mouth, making a sickening sound before dashing to the bathroom.
    Jean turned back to the camera, a weird expression on her face. “So, to the cafeteria ladies we say, 'Stop the epidemic!'” she concluded, ending off with an overly-sober but suave, “This is Jean Janis Parker with Washington Academy News.”
    Aron turned the camera off, smiling. “You did great!”
    “You really think so?” Jean began to wander down the hall, clutching the microphone to her stomach and blushing. Aron and she had gotten to know each other as they did the news, growing closer together as they worked. They were still on that thin line between acquaintanceship and friendship when it was awkward to hold any kind of conversation, but Jean liked to think they were close at heart. She spared herself a glance over at her maybe-friend for just a second. He was turning off the bulky outdated camera and removing the videotape from the top of it. In fact, a lot of the equipment they had was outdated, even with the academy’s stellar news program.
    “Well of course I think so!” he assured her as he struggled with his grip on it. “You’re a natural....news....reporter.” He grunted with effort in between words, attempting to situate the heavy camera in his hands again. Aron had built up quite a bit of muscle lugging that thing around, but he still struggled with it most days. Absently, Jean took a mental note to really talk to the principal about upgrading their equipment. “I should probably go,” he suggested when he finally closed the top and was in control of the camera again. Jean returned to the present and shoved her microphone at him before she forgot. “Gotta get this on the newsreel! The news doesn’t air itself!” He snatched the microphone once he had a free hand, and with those words, he took off down the hall without so much as a goodbye.
    Jean laughed to herself and kept walking. Aron wasn’t one to talk, and she should know that.
    A few minutes later she reached her classroom, entering and then slumping down in her chair. Pulling the appropriate books out of her backpack, she arranged them on her desk, waiting for the sound in the hall that signaled the news was starting. Before long, the telltale jingle went off and she heard the head reporter, Amelia Bow, make her dramatic morning speech. There wasn’t much of a hush in the hall: no one really cared what she had to say most of the time. Or any of the reporters, for that matter. Poor girl. Jean stifled this thought and went on pulling out books, notebooks, and pens and arranging them.
    A curly-haired girl beside her began to snore loudly, and the chatter around her became ambience. As for Jean, she was just glad she had a spot by the window. Twirling her locks, she stared out and imagined herself somewhere far, far away --- if only there were a place like that. Sure, the mountains were enough to enjoy and having your very own citywide Christmas lights all year, but she longed for the wide-open space of the country; the fields of wildflowers, the ambience of cicadas, crickets, owls, and toads. And yet, something even more open than that: the country just wasn’t wide enough for her. But what was? She felt confined in a way she couldn’t quite justify to herself.
    Everyone around continued to talk through Amelia’s “top story” and paid no mind to the poor girl. She blabbed on about news in fashion, school politics, new and repealed rules, important notifications from herself and a few actually important ones from the principal. As she moved on to a few national news tidbits, the speakers boomed out the phrase “recent activity in our atmosphere." Jean was the only one to pick up on this because of all the noise and was about to tune it out, thinking it was more stuff about global warming, when one word caught her attention.
    “…and some strange transmissions have…” Amelia continued. Transmissions… Jean mulled over the word. The news moved on to Jean’s own report, but she was too distracted now to critique it.
    Transmissions? From where? And, more importantly, from what? …Aliens? No, no, no; not possible, not probable. And yet, it was her job as a reporter to know. It made her curious: it was her instinct to dig deep.
    Mr. Curette’s voice broke through her focus. He clomped into the room with a bored expression on his face and sighed, “Let us begin class,” with an unnecessarily loud drop of his books. “And maybe this time I can retain a bit of my sanity! Doubt it, but who says trying will kill me?” As he flopped into his creaky wooden chair, he murmured under his breath, “Please let it kill me.”
    Mr. Curette never ceased to amaze Jean. Every day he came in like this and couldn’t care less for his class, yet he still kept his job. Even if he hadn’t already looked like him, his attitude alone was enough to remind Jean of Squidward, and that was kind of terrifying. She had tried doing a report on him to get him fired, which was submitted anonymously. So far, he had fortunately never found out; either that or he just didn’t show it. In addition, she had turned in numerous character sketches about him in English, and eventually Mrs. Thrush was forced to side with her. Currently, Jean had a mental note to arrange a public demonstration of Mr. Curette’s indifference and atrocious demeanor in front of the principal, but the plan would probably never come to fruition. (Jean’s mental corkboard was chock-full.) For now, he and Jean just hated each other. He, for no reason; and Jean had her -- extremely valid -- reasons.
    “Turn your books to page 112. And stop giving me those sour looks! Remember, no matter how much you hate this class, I more than likely hate you more.” Jean rolled her eyes and begrudgingly flipped through the pages. With a flourish of his hand, Mr. Curette stood up and proceeded to his flimsy plastic pulpit. “Now, for today’s lesson, I…”
    Jean’s mind trailed off once more, mulling over the news today. She still could not get over the report about the transmissions; that innate need to know drove her crazy. And she couldn't shake the feeling that something was right under her nose that she wasn't seeing. Just as she was mentally reciting what she would ask Amelia, she caught sight of Nikko across the classroom.
    His eyes were fixed straight at her. Jean ducked down and covered her face, but she couldn’t suppress the urge to make sure he wasn’t still looking. When she glanced up again, his eyes were trained hard on her, boring into her soul in a very literal sense, searching for something. She cringed with an unnatural fear and slid down in her desk, closing her eyes and trying to catch her breath.
    Nikko Leonid was what you would call your typical goth: black hair, hardened expression, depressing apparel choices, sworn to near-silence, and an aura about him that repelled most others. Not in a disgusting way, but like a spiky bubble about him. His black strands usually curtained his obsidian eyes, but today they were wide open and vulnerable to the world. They gleamed with something nigh nymph-like. He’d been in this school for who knows how long, but even his strange behavior hadn’t gotten him anywhere in anyone’s eyes --- he was invisible to the world. Jean was probably the one person who noticed him…and feared him. Yes, it was unnatural for any reporter to know fear much less show it, but she couldn’t help it. Something about him warned Jean, and it terrified her. He had for years.
    Even as she directed her eyes to Mr. Curette and attempted to pay attention, she could feel Nikko’s eyes on her. Perhaps he knew just how much she feared him and decided to play on that today. Jean hoped not; she had no defense, even a news story, for this one. Perhaps he knew that she’d looked at him enough times to have his unique facial structure memorized -- memorized enough to have vivid nightmares that left her lying in bed with a severe migraine -- and was just mocking her today. That wasn’t a very good thought, either. Nevertheless, even though she strived, her mind would not compute anything Mr. Curette was saying. She was constantly watching Nikko from the corner of her eye. His stabbing eyes kept their target, still searching, strengthening their effect every second. Jean closed hers and sat back in her desk, trying to remember to breathe. The fear had never been this great: today, Nikko was more terrifying than ever. One more glance, Jean reprimanded herself. Maybe I can, I don’t know, stare him down or something. Jean was intimidating, right? Right. Slowly, she let her head swivel in his direction. However, he was gone.
    Confusion clouded everything. Jean hadn’t seen him leave the room, much less even get out of his seat. How did he---
    “Miss Parker? …Miss Parker!” Mr. Curette’s voice jolted her out of the dilemma. With a sigh, he slowly sauntered up to her desk. “Don’t think just because you’re a little school reporter you can just skid by, Jean Janis Parker.” Her reporter name was spat mockingly, like every syllable of it burned his tongue. “I will not tolerate that, and you, in my class. It is rightfully fair, and my judgment is golden. Now,” A shark-like smile spread across his face as he trudged back to his pulpit, “would you care to give us your answer?”
    It was important to keep composure in her position. A reporter must show themselves in control at all times -- even when they desperately wanted to punch a teacher. However, control meant acting like there wasn’t a huge blank spot in the past minute of her sense of hearing. “I… uh…” she stuttered intelligently.
    “Detention,” he retorted before the stutter was even fully out of Jean’s mouth. “In fact, just to show you how superbly insignificant your little position is, two weeks detention!” That shark smile broadened.
    Jean really wanted to hit him.
_____________________________________________

    Later at lunch, Jean munched on her sandwich angrily, writing notes for her next report as she did so. Entranced in her own little world, Jean couldn’t even be distracted by the horrendously loud lettuce crunch. Her pen scribbled vehemently across the paper as she planned her next broadcast and interview, but the slam of a lunch tray made her jump and drop her pen.
    “Table was empty,” Nikko mumbled in a gruff voice, lowering himself onto the farthest seat from her.
    I’ll just ignore him, she thought, I don’t need any of his nonsense anyway. Empty! Really? Could he not see me sitting at the table?! Nevertheless, she swallowed her anger, picked up her pen with a shaking hand, and tried to focus on her notes. “In the past week…” she spoke slowly as she wrote it down, struggling to keep her hand steady.
    “Could you be quiet?” that same gruff voice -- that actually sounded really put-on now that she thought about it -- reprimanded her. Again! Her anger boiled. However, she would not let him control her. She was perfectly fine with pretending like there had never been a Nikko Leonid on the face of this earth. If only he wouldn’t make it so hard to! Images of leaping across the table to strangle him accosted Jean, but once again, she swallowed her anger and her pride and resumed her notes. In the past week--
    He was such a mystery, though! It was destined that she would be interested with him. This was a story she just had to g--
    No, she had to push this thought down and focus on her current scribblings, but the question of where he had disappeared to plagued her mind. After a few minutes of fighting it, she finally succumbed. It was useless fighting the journalist within. Sighing agitatedly, she set down her pen and begrudgingly looked his way. “Where did you go during class today?” Jean’s voice speared through the silence that had settled between them.
    Immediately, he threw all of his trash and food onto his tray and with an irritated glance moved to another almost-empty table. This boy was an injury to her pride! What had she done? He was the one with the attitude! Steaming, she went back to her notes and resumed them angrily, muttering curses on a certain black-haired devil.

    The rest of lunch produced nothing. Jean couldn’t focus on her next broadcast so, angrily, she shut her notebook and stabbed at her leftover pasta. Usually, Jean would have eaten from the cafeteria menu, but since her “The Surprise is Food Poisoning” report, she thought it would be bad for publicity. None of the pasta really made it to her mouth: she was still too angry to eat. Somehow, the mystery that made up Nikko Leonid and the fact he uprooted her pride made him get to her. Besides, intriguing or not, he still scared her. That only added to her anger. Someone like him shouldn’t frighten her, but something emanated from him that scared her beyond hope.
    She watched Aron at another table with his friends. Like usual, he stayed to himself and only muttered responses with that quirky ghost of a smirk on his face. She wished she could go over there or that he would be close enough it wouldn’t be weird for him to saunter over here. Plus, either way, she would hope he would strike up the conversation if he did come – and he probably wouldn’t do either.
    She sighed and swirled the pasta around, forming a small hill of curly yellow parts. Sure, Jean had friends, but not the sit-with-you-at-lunch type of friends. More of the I-only-like-you-because-you’re-popular kind (even if in the long run no one even bothered listening to her reports.) Which she didn’t mind. She liked the quiet. Jean always wanted to sit by herself. A full table was just too noisy. You could never get anyone to shut up, and overlapping voices all trying to dominate the conversation made her head so scrambled. So maybe Aron’s distance was a good thing. Jean consoled herself with this thought.
    However, she had to give up on the pasta and close the container. She’d eat more of it later. Right now, she had too much to think about – the top of the list being the inevitable abomination of detention.
_____________________________________________

    Detention was exactly what was expected – a mob of slackers and others of a repulsive kind. Jean instinctively sat toward the front, for who would sit there in detention? Certainly, any foul figures would be drawn to the back and repelled from a “goody” like her. At least, she hoped so. The last thing she needed was a delinquent neighbor. However, some grudges may be held against her. She was locked up in the same cell she had most likely confined others to. That was not a good thought. In addition to this, homework was banned from being pulled out or done during detention. This rule was only because detention was considered a punishment and apparently doing your homework wasn’t because it “relieved afterschool concentration.” Jean herself believed homework should be a part of detention, as it would be a punishment to those there. She added a news report on this very predicament to her crowded mental corkboard. But, for now, she was stuck with this crowd of acquaintances, strangers, and maybe some possible enemies.
    Chin in her palm, Jean watched the clock's second hand tick slowly around. She would have to endure two weeks of this: an hour of her time wasted while stories were out there, waiting to be found!
    And suddenly, an opportunity presented itself, in the form of the newest detention attendee wandering in and slouching down into his seat. Apparently he was such a regular that he practically owned the desk he was in. You could tell by the way he casually sauntered up to it, already knowing where he was going to sit. Also, there was the fact that everyone avoided this desk like the plague. Of course, this was only evident to Jean because she paid attention to him. Anyone else was probably entirely ignorant of his presence.
    Just her luck, Nikko's seat happened to be in the front -- right next to hers. But the thought that this was actually perfect dawned on her right on time. Eagerly clearing her throat, she waited for him to turn his head. When he finally did, a groan and a sneer was all she received before he resumed staring off in the other direction.
    “What are you in here for?” Jean leaned in closer, purposely invading his personal bubble -- the spiky bubble no one should ever invade. This sent a chill up her spine. Whether of fear or excitement, she didn’t know. She got a few weird looks from people in her row, but the teacher running detention hadn’t looked up yet.
    A small snicker escaped his lips. “You just have all the questions, don't you?” And apparently it was customary for him to speak in a normal voice as well without having to worry about getting shushed. He looked so smug: clearly he was right at home and she was just an outsider.
    “And you never have any of the answers.” Crossing her arms, Jean stared him down, trying to suppress that chill still working its way up her spine that she was now very sure was of fear.
    She couldn't stifle it any longer when his beady eyes locked with hers. “Are you really that desperate for a story?”
    If Jean weren’t so flustered, she'd be terrified. But his comment had ruffled her feathers just enough to overwhelm the horror. “Desperate?!” This earned her a fierce “SHH!” from the teacher supervising detention. She quickly lowered her voice and her head as she continued, “I’ll have you know that I have plenty of amazing stories lined up!”
    With a renewed smirk on his lips, and a switchblade (retrieved from his pocket) that he began to clean his fingernails with, he only uttered four words: “Then go write them.”
    So amazed was Jean by the sight before her that her voice rose an octave as she sputtered, “A switchblade?! Are--Are those even allowed here?!”
    Without looking up, Nikko shook the blade at her nonchalantly. “Why don't you do one of your little… ya know, news thingies on it?”
    That just about did it.
    Immediately Jean slammed her hands on her desk and jumped from her seat. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she hissed to no one in particular. And, without a care if she got in trouble, stormed out the door and down the hall.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

    A mob of acne-faced, zombie-like teenagers wandered into Las Vegas’ Washington Academy, seeking purpose. Some roamed the halls, hunting others to entertain them. Some trudged into classrooms and fell into desks, letting themselves drift off to sleep until the shrill bell would ruthlessly wake them. The halls were filled with jocks chasing nerds; some cheerleaders, goths, and emos; punks, preps, and the ever-present stoner crowd. But one brunette-haired girl with piercing blue eyes stood out in this crowded hallway, grin gleaming and voice booming.
    “Over the past three years, dozens of our students have gotten terrible sickness from what the cafeteria ladies call ‘Stu Surprise!’” Jean declared into her school reporter microphone. “But the only surprise we all know it to be is a horrid mishmash of some kind of rotten food.” She walked backwards a little down the hall, her camera boy, Aron, following her. “Join us as a former victim of this so-called stu shares his traumatic story.”
    She held her microphone out to a boy so pale and sickly it was obvious he shouldn’t even be at school today. Jean gently prompted him and he swallowed, giving the camera a sage look. “I ate the Stu Surprise a week ago and I'm still feeling the effects,” he mumbled, clutching his stomach. “My stomach hurts, my head is pounding, and--” Abruptly, he covered his mouth, making a sickening sound before dashing to the bathroom.
    Jean turned back to the camera, a weird expression on her face. “So, to the cafeteria ladies we say, 'Stop the epidemic!'” she concluded, ending off with an overly-sober but suave, “This is Jean Janis Parker with Washington Academy News.”
    Aron turned the camera off, smiling. “You did great!”
    “You really think so?” Jean began to wander down the hall, clutching the microphone to her stomach and blushing. Aron and she had gotten to know each other as they did the news, growing closer together as they worked. They were still on that thin line between acquaintanceship and friendship when it was awkward to hold any kind of conversation, but Jean liked to think they were close at heart. She spared herself a glance over at her maybe-friend for just a second. He was turning off the bulky outdated camera and removing the videotape from the top of it. In fact, a lot of the equipment they had was outdated, even with the academy’s stellar news program.
    “Well of course I think so!” he assured her as he struggled with his grip on it. “You’re a natural....news....reporter.” He grunted with effort in between words, attempting to situate the heavy camera in his hands again. Aron had built up quite a bit of muscle lugging that thing around, but he still struggled with it most days. Absently, Jean took a mental note to really talk to the principal about upgrading their equipment. “I should probably go,” he suggested when he finally closed the top and was in control of the camera again. Jean returned to the present and shoved her microphone at him before she forgot. “Gotta get this on the newsreel! The news doesn’t air itself!” He snatched the microphone once he had a free hand, and with those words, he took off down the hall without so much as a goodbye.
    Jean laughed to herself and kept walking. Aron wasn’t one to talk, and she should know that.
    A few minutes later she reached her classroom, entering and then slumping down in her chair. Pulling the appropriate books out of her backpack, she arranged them on her desk, waiting for the sound in the hall that signaled the news was starting. Before long, the telltale jingle went off and she heard the head reporter, Amelia Bow, make her dramatic morning speech. There wasn’t much of a hush in the hall: no one really cared what she had to say most of the time. Or any of the reporters, for that matter. Poor girl. Jean stifled this thought and went on pulling out books, notebooks, and pens and arranging them.
    A curly-haired girl beside her began to snore loudly, and the chatter around her became ambience. As for Jean, she was just glad she had a spot by the window. Twirling her locks, she stared out and imagined herself somewhere far, far away --- if only there were a place like that. Sure, the mountains were enough to enjoy and having your very own citywide Christmas lights all year, but she longed for the wide-open space of the country; the fields of wildflowers, the ambience of cicadas, crickets, owls, and toads. And yet, something even more open than that: the country just wasn’t wide enough for her. But what was? She felt confined in a way she couldn’t quite justify to herself.
    Everyone around continued to talk through Amelia’s “top story” and paid no mind to the poor girl. She blabbed on about news in fashion, school politics, new and repealed rules, important notifications from herself and a few actually important ones from the principal. As she moved on to a few national news tidbits, the speakers boomed out the phrase “recent activity in our atmosphere." Jean was the only one to pick up on this because of all the noise and was about to tune it out, thinking it was more stuff about global warming, when one word caught her attention.
    “…and some strange transmissions have…” Amelia continued. Transmissions… Jean mulled over the word. The news moved on to Jean’s own report, but she was too distracted now to critique it.
    Transmissions? From where? And, more importantly, from what? …Aliens? No, no, no; not possible, not probable. And yet, it was her job as a reporter to know. It made her curious: it was her instinct to dig deep.
    Mr. Curette’s voice broke through her focus. He clomped into the room with a bored expression on his face and sighed, “Let us begin class,” with an unnecessarily loud drop of his books. “And maybe this time I can retain a bit of my sanity! Doubt it, but who says trying will kill me?” As he flopped into his creaky wooden chair, he murmured under his breath, “Please let it kill me.”
    Mr. Curette never ceased to amaze Jean. Every day he came in like this and couldn’t care less for his class, yet he still kept his job. Even if he hadn’t already looked like him, his attitude alone was enough to remind Jean of Squidward, and that was kind of terrifying. She had tried doing a report on him to get him fired, which was submitted anonymously. So far, he had fortunately never found out; either that or he just didn’t show it. In addition, she had turned in numerous character sketches about him in English, and eventually Mrs. Thrush was forced to side with her. Currently, Jean had a mental note to arrange a public demonstration of Mr. Curette’s indifference and atrocious demeanor in front of the principal, but the plan would probably never come to fruition. (Jean’s mental corkboard was chock-full.) For now, he and Jean just hated each other. He, for no reason; and Jean had her -- extremely valid -- reasons.
    “Turn your books to page 112. And stop giving me those sour looks! Remember, no matter how much you hate this class, I more than likely hate you more.” Jean rolled her eyes and begrudgingly flipped through the pages. With a flourish of his hand, Mr. Curette stood up and proceeded to his flimsy plastic pulpit. “Now, for today’s lesson, I…”
    Jean’s mind trailed off once more, mulling over the news today. She still could not get over the report about the transmissions; that innate need to know drove her crazy. And she couldn't shake the feeling that something was right under her nose that she wasn't seeing. Just as she was mentally reciting what she would ask Amelia, she caught sight of Nikko across the classroom.
    His eyes were fixed straight at her. Jean ducked down and covered her face, but she couldn’t suppress the urge to make sure he wasn’t still looking. When she glanced up again, his eyes were trained hard on her, boring into her soul in a very literal sense, searching for something. She cringed with an unnatural fear and slid down in her desk, closing her eyes and trying to catch her breath.
    Nikko Leonid was what you would call your typical goth: black hair, hardened expression, depressing apparel choices, sworn to near-silence, and an aura about him that repelled most others. Not in a disgusting way, but like a spiky bubble about him. His black strands usually curtained his obsidian eyes, but today they were wide open and vulnerable to the world. They gleamed with something nigh nymph-like. He’d been in this school for who knows how long, but even his strange behavior hadn’t gotten him anywhere in anyone’s eyes --- he was invisible to the world. Jean was probably the one person who noticed him…and feared him. Yes, it was unnatural for any reporter to know fear much less show it, but she couldn’t help it. Something about him warned Jean, and it terrified her. He had for years.
    Even as she directed her eyes to Mr. Curette and attempted to pay attention, she could feel Nikko’s eyes on her. Perhaps he knew just how much she feared him and decided to play on that today. Jean hoped not; she had no defense, even a news story, for this one. Perhaps he knew that she’d looked at him enough times to have his unique facial structure memorized -- memorized enough to have vivid nightmares that left her lying in bed with a severe migraine -- and was just mocking her today. That wasn’t a very good thought, either. Nevertheless, even though she strived, her mind would not compute anything Mr. Curette was saying. She was constantly watching Nikko from the corner of her eye. His stabbing eyes kept their target, still searching, strengthening their effect every second. Jean closed hers and sat back in her desk, trying to remember to breathe. The fear had never been this great: today, Nikko was more terrifying than ever. One more glance, Jean reprimanded herself. Maybe I can, I don’t know, stare him down or something. Jean was intimidating, right? Right. Slowly, she let her head swivel in his direction. However, he was gone.
    Confusion clouded everything. Jean hadn’t seen him leave the room, much less even get out of his seat. How did he---
    “Miss Parker? …Miss Parker!” Mr. Curette’s voice jolted her out of the dilemma. With a sigh, he slowly sauntered up to her desk. “Don’t think just because you’re a little school reporter you can just skid by, Jean Janis Parker.” Her reporter name was spat mockingly, like every syllable of it burned his tongue. “I will not tolerate that, and you, in my class. It is rightfully fair, and my judgment is golden. Now,” A shark-like smile spread across his face as he trudged back to his pulpit, “would you care to give us your answer?”
    It was important to keep composure in her position. A reporter must show themselves in control at all times -- even when they desperately wanted to punch a teacher. However, control meant acting like there wasn’t a huge blank spot in the past minute of her sense of hearing. “I… uh…” she stuttered intelligently.
    “Detention,” he retorted before the stutter was even fully out of Jean’s mouth. “In fact, just to show you how superbly insignificant your little position is, two weeks detention!” That shark smile broadened.
    Jean really wanted to hit him.
_____________________________________________

    Later at lunch, Jean munched on her sandwich angrily, writing notes for her next report as she did so. Entranced in her own little world, Jean couldn’t even be distracted by the horrendously loud lettuce crunch. Her pen scribbled vehemently across the paper as she planned her next broadcast and interview, but the slam of a lunch tray made her jump and drop her pen.
    “Table was empty,” Nikko mumbled in a gruff voice, lowering himself onto the farthest seat from her.
    I’ll just ignore him, she thought, I don’t need any of his nonsense anyway. Empty! Really? Could he not see me sitting at the table?! Nevertheless, she swallowed her anger, picked up her pen with a shaking hand, and tried to focus on her notes. “In the past week…” she spoke slowly as she wrote it down, struggling to keep her hand steady.
    “Could you be quiet?” that same gruff voice -- that actually sounded really put-on now that she thought about it -- reprimanded her. Again! Her anger boiled. However, she would not let him control her. She was perfectly fine with pretending like there had never been a Nikko Leonid on the face of this earth. If only he wouldn’t make it so hard to! Images of leaping across the table to strangle him accosted Jean, but once again, she swallowed her anger and her pride and resumed her notes. In the past week--
    He was such a mystery, though! It was destined that she would be interested with him. This was a story she just had to g--
    No, she had to push this thought down and focus on her current scribblings, but the question of where he had disappeared to plagued her mind. After a few minutes of fighting it, she finally succumbed. It was useless fighting the journalist within. Sighing agitatedly, she set down her pen and begrudgingly looked his way. “Where did you go during class today?” Jean’s voice speared through the silence that had settled between them.
    Immediately, he threw all of his trash and food onto his tray and with an irritated glance moved to another almost-empty table. This boy was an injury to her pride! What had she done? He was the one with the attitude! Steaming, she went back to her notes and resumed them angrily, muttering curses on a certain black-haired devil.

    The rest of lunch produced nothing. Jean couldn’t focus on her next broadcast so, angrily, she shut her notebook and stabbed at her leftover pasta. Usually, Jean would have eaten from the cafeteria menu, but since her “The Surprise is Food Poisoning” report, she thought it would be bad for publicity. None of the pasta really made it to her mouth: she was still too angry to eat. Somehow, the mystery that made up Nikko Leonid and the fact he uprooted her pride made him get to her. Besides, intriguing or not, he still scared her. That only added to her anger. Someone like him shouldn’t frighten her, but something emanated from him that scared her beyond hope.
    She watched Aron at another table with his friends. Like usual, he stayed to himself and only muttered responses with that quirky ghost of a smirk on his face. She wished she could go over there or that he would be close enough it wouldn’t be weird for him to saunter over here. Plus, either way, she would hope he would strike up the conversation if he did come – and he probably wouldn’t do either.
    She sighed and swirled the pasta around, forming a small hill of curly yellow parts. Sure, Jean had friends, but not the sit-with-you-at-lunch type of friends. More of the I-only-like-you-because-you’re-popular kind (even if in the long run no one even bothered listening to her reports.) Which she didn’t mind. She liked the quiet. Jean always wanted to sit by herself. A full table was just too noisy. You could never get anyone to shut up, and overlapping voices all trying to dominate the conversation made her head so scrambled. So maybe Aron’s distance was a good thing. Jean consoled herself with this thought.
    However, she had to give up on the pasta and close the container. She’d eat more of it later. Right now, she had too much to think about – the top of the list being the inevitable abomination of detention.
_____________________________________________

    Detention was exactly what was expected – a mob of slackers and others of a repulsive kind. Jean instinctively sat toward the front, for who would sit there in detention? Certainly, any foul figures would be drawn to the back and repelled from a “goody” like her. At least, she hoped so. The last thing she needed was a delinquent neighbor. However, some grudges may be held against her. She was locked up in the same cell she had most likely confined others to. That was not a good thought. In addition to this, homework was banned from being pulled out or done during detention. This rule was only because detention was considered a punishment and apparently doing your homework wasn’t because it “relieved afterschool concentration.” Jean herself believed homework should be a part of detention, as it would be a punishment to those there. She added a news report on this very predicament to her crowded mental corkboard. But, for now, she was stuck with this crowd of acquaintances, strangers, and maybe some possible enemies.
    Chin in her palm, Jean watched the clock's second hand tick slowly around. She would have to endure two weeks of this: an hour of her time wasted while stories were out there, waiting to be found!
    And suddenly, an opportunity presented itself, in the form of the newest detention attendee wandering in and slouching down into his seat. Apparently he was such a regular that he practically owned the desk he was in. You could tell by the way he casually sauntered up to it, already knowing where he was going to sit. Also, there was the fact that everyone avoided this desk like the plague. Of course, this was only evident to Jean because she paid attention to him. Anyone else was probably entirely ignorant of his presence.
    Just her luck, Nikko's seat happened to be in the front -- right next to hers. But the thought that this was actually perfect dawned on her right on time. Eagerly clearing her throat, she waited for him to turn his head. When he finally did, a groan and a sneer was all she received before he resumed staring off in the other direction.
    “What are you in here for?” Jean leaned in closer, purposely invading his personal bubble -- the spiky bubble no one should ever invade. This sent a chill up her spine. Whether of fear or excitement, she didn’t know. She got a few weird looks from people in her row, but the teacher running detention hadn’t looked up yet.
    A small snicker escaped his lips. “You just have all the questions, don't you?” And apparently it was customary for him to speak in a normal voice as well without having to worry about getting shushed. He looked so smug: clearly he was right at home and she was just an outsider.
    “And you never have any of the answers.” Crossing her arms, Jean stared him down, trying to suppress that chill still working its way up her spine that she was now very sure was of fear.
    She couldn't stifle it any longer when his beady eyes locked with hers. “Are you really that desperate for a story?”
    If Jean weren’t so flustered, she'd be terrified. But his comment had ruffled her feathers just enough to overwhelm the horror. “Desperate?!” This earned her a fierce “SHH!” from the teacher supervising detention. She quickly lowered her voice and her head as she continued, “I’ll have you know that I have plenty of amazing stories lined up!”
    With a renewed smirk on his lips, and a switchblade (retrieved from his pocket) that he began to clean his fingernails with, he only uttered four words: “Then go write them.”
    So amazed was Jean by the sight before her that her voice rose an octave as she sputtered, “A switchblade?! Are--Are those even allowed here?!”
    Without looking up, Nikko shook the blade at her nonchalantly. “Why don't you do one of your little… ya know, news thingies on it?”
    That just about did it.
    Immediately Jean slammed her hands on her desk and jumped from her seat. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she hissed to no one in particular. And, without a care if she got in trouble, stormed out the door and down the hall.